Work Text:
so sad, so sad
i could never make you stay
too bad, too bad
i could never walk away
so sad, so sad
i rely upon cliché
to help me explain
why i will never be the same
// varsity, ‘so sad, so sad’
The days all blur together for Martin when he’s working for Peter Lukas. The minutes pass like seconds, the hours pass like weeks, and Martin hardly knows anything but the constant silence and the oppressive atmosphere of the office where nobody can come and see him. Sometimes they try, but Peter has been very adamant that it can’t be permitted, and Martin is getting more and more okay with that each day. He doesn’t feel much of anything these days, except when he can’t avoid running into Jon. He gets scolded for that every time, as if it’s his fault, as if he isn’t trying his level best to stay as far away from him as possible.
He wishes the imperative to stay away from people included Peter, but apparently there’s a hardwired caveat where his hovering and interfering doesn’t count as a worldly connection. Which makes sense, because Martin truly could not care less about the man, and because he still feels incredibly lonely even when Peter is around, but still. He wishes Peter didn’t have to be around.
The problem with Peter—well, one of the main problems out of many—is that he has no tact. Martin isn’t sure if it’s a Lonely thing or just a personality flaw, but Peter Lukas either doesn’t know or doesn’t care about what is proper to say to another human being. He started out politely enough when they first met, and then he took Martin under his wing, and now he doesn’t seem to give half a thought before opening his mouth to be irritating.
It’s grating to Martin, who has spent so much of his life trying to be the politest, least objectionable person in every room he enters, to know that Peter has just chosen to throw all of that out the window because it doesn’t suit him. It makes Martin think maybe he never needed it, either, maybe it’s a crutch he could’ve done away with a long time ago. It’s not fair that someone can be so successful and esteemed and his boss without the need for any humanity.
“You know,” Peter says one day, appearing out of thin air again, “you’d be surprised how lonely it can be to fuck someone who doesn’t love you.”
Martin chokes on his tongue and jumps a foot in the air, then tries to sputter a halting protest, but Peter stops him with a hand on his shoulder. It feels exactly as reassuring as it’s meant to, which is not at all. “I’m not propositioning you, Martin,” he says, which is quite a reassurance. “I’m talking about your archivist.”
A sigh escapes Martin like a reflex, a well-worn chastisement: “He’s not my—sorry, what?” He pauses, swallowing down a lump in his throat, trying not to understand what Peter is getting at.
“Think of it as a gift,” says Peter, a smile evident in his voice even as Martin can see that he isn’t smiling.
“There is literally nothing in the universe I would less like to think about,” Martin replies, disgusted at the thought of Peter offering Jon to him. “You can’t—he doesn’t—and besides, he wouldn’t—this is extremely inappropriate, Peter.”
“What’s inappropriate, Martin,” says Peter, enunciating each syllable meaningfully, “is endangering our mission—endangering the world—because you can’t get over a schoolboy crush.”
Peter’s tone is deceptively sympathetic and friendly, his words harsh, but Martin knows he’s right. He must be right. Martin’s committed himself to going along with Peter’s plan, and he didn’t make that commitment lightly: he believes, to an extent, that doing as Peter says may help to save the world. And if that means getting over Jon, well… it’s about time.
Jon dying didn’t do it, no matter how much Martin tries to pretend that the distance between them means otherwise, and he thinks when all is said and done, if they do both survive, it might not be so bad to no longer be devastatingly in love with Jon. It hurts him all the time. It’s hopeless, in the literal sense, and it always has been. Peter isn’t exactly breaking that news to him now, not any more than it turned his world upside-down the first time Martin cried on Tim’s shoulder about Jon and Tim told him—warmly, lovingly—that there was no use in continuing to dwell on him like this. Martin knows it’s no use, he’s known it since the moment he laid eyes on Jon’s gorgeous, scowling face.
But that doesn’t mean Martin puts any stock in Peter’s idea of how to get over him, the logic behind which Martin still doesn’t quite understand. “What are you suggesting?” he asks, his voice hard and clipped.
“I’m suggesting,” says Peter, insistently cheerful, “that keeping your distance emotionally doesn’t have to mean doing the same physically. You could have an outlet for your feelings for him, use it to get past this without unnecessary attachment.”
Martin wants to laugh. It’s far too late for him to avoid unnecessary attachment to Jon. He tries to tell himself—and Peter—that he’s already done his grieving, that he’s been able to stay away since Jon woke up, except for a few accidental meetings that he cut short as soon as he could, and isn’t that a good sign? But he’s doing it for Jon’s sake, for Jon’s protection, all for Jon, and he knows it, and he knows that Peter knows it.
“Peter, I have work to do,” he snaps with an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I’d appreciate it if you could not.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t want to,” Peter drawls, his tone almost as irritating as his words. “I may not be able to reach into your mind like some bosses, but I do have eyes. Not to mention, I can smell it on you. Just talking about him makes you feel more alone.”
Martin grits his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut, grips the pen in his hand tightly enough that he’d worry about it breaking, if he were thinking about things like that. At the moment, the only thing he’s thinking about is how to get Peter to stop talking about Jon.
Maybe if he explained the emotional reaction it evokes in him—the fierce protectiveness that surges in his chest, the overwhelming need to keep Jon safe from the monster who’s taken over his life—then Peter would understand. Or, maybe not understand in the sense of actually getting it and caring that it upsets Martin, but at least see that it’s also a problem from his own perspective. Talking about Jon might make his connection to the Lonely stronger, but it also severely threatens his dedication to the cause, and Peter should know that. But Martin isn’t about to open up to him about his feelings, not ever.
He puts the pen down and speaks slowly, not looking up at Peter. “It doesn’t matter what I want,” he says. “What you’re suggesting wouldn’t help. Trust me.”
Peter leaves it there, for now. Maybe he senses the seething rage beneath Martin’s words, or maybe he’s just bored with the conversation, but he excuses himself without another word on the subject, just a quick reminder of the work he needs from Martin by the end of the day. Martin does the work, because he has to, because there’s nothing else he can do, but he stays angry the whole time.
Martin doesn’t like being angry. It was one of his least favorite ways to feel back when he was regularly feeling the whole gamut of human emotion, and nowadays it just serves to remind him that feeling nothing actually is the preferable option. He’s sick of being angry, sick of being sad—maybe if there were any joy left for him in the world, he wouldn’t be where he is right now. He frowns down at the papers on his desk for the rest of the day, trying like hell to put the whole conversation out of his mind.
The anger fades, in the coming days, and he returns to his numb baseline before long. He doesn’t stop thinking about it, though. He can’t help but entertain the idea, especially when he’s at home, getting off miserably before falling into a restless sleep. He still doesn’t think it’ll help him get over his pathetic feelings for Jon, or fix their situation in any way, no matter what Peter says. But a tiny, selfish voice in the back of his mind asks: what if Jon says yes? What if he wants it just as badly as Martin always has? It says: if Peter is allowing it, why shouldn’t he? It tells him: if Peter wants it to happen, it can’t be all that detrimental to the cause. It whispers: if he doesn’t plan to make it through this, shouldn’t he take this chance before it’s too late?
That voice raises some very good points, asks some very pertinent questions. It becomes quite hard for Martin to contend with it, so convincing are its arguments. It’s this difficulty, this weakness, this bone-deep desire, that’s on Martin’s mind the next time he unexpectedly comes across Jon in the hallway at work.
“M-Martin!” Jon says as soon as he sees him, his eyes going wide, his breathless voice full of surprise and affection and sadness and fear.
“Oh,” Martin gasps, holding his hands together in front of him to suppress the urge to reach out for him. “Jon. Hi. I can’t—“
“You can’t stay,” Jon finishes for him, dejected. “You can’t talk.”
Martin takes a deep breath, closing his eyes against Jon’s open, pleading expression. “I really shouldn’t,” he says quietly, his certainty already wavering. “I’m sorry, Jon.”
Jon swallows with an audible gulp, wringing his hands in front of his chest. “I know. You’ve said,” he replies stiffly, then softens his voice and adds, “I… I’m sorry, too. For everything.”
It’s more than Martin can take, hearing him like that. He has to take a moment to attempt to compose himself before he can say anything, and he doesn’t do a very good job of it. “Yeah,” he mumbles, his heart beating out of his chest. He should leave. He should end this conversation before he completely loses his ability to see the bigger picture. “That doesn’t exactly change anything,” he says, unable to stop himself. “I-I wish it did.”
That was the wrong thing to say if Martin wants to keep this short and not give Jon—or himself—any undue hope. Too late for that, judging by the look on Jon’s face. “You… do?” he asks, disbelieving, stepping closer. “Then why can’t it?”
Using all of his willpower to take a small step back and put the distance back between them, Martin shakes his head. “We’ve been through this, Jon,” he says. “It’s complicated, I-I can’t talk about it.”
“I don’t understand,” Jon says plaintively. “I just want to understand, Martin.”
“Well, I can’t help you with that,” Martin says pointedly, half-turning away. “Listen, Jon, I have to—I have to go.”
“Don’t,” Jon implores, his voice breaking. He reaches a hand out to Martin, crossing half of the space that separates them before halting, his fingers flexing uselessly in midair. “Please. Please, Martin. I need you.”
All of Martin’s breath goes out of him with a wounded sound, his mouth hanging open. He doesn’t believe it, not really, he can’t believe that Jon needs him in any real sense, but Jon certainly seems to believe it. Martin knew, of course he knew he was hurting Jon, but he had been benefiting from a mental block that stopped him from thinking about exactly how much. He flounders for several long, torturous seconds, trying his damnedest to talk himself out of what Jon is dangerously close to talking him into. He meets Jon’s eyes, and that traitorous voice in his head pipes up again, whispering: do it. He wants it. He’s asking, he’s begging for it.
And Martin can’t argue with that. He tries, he really does. Jon isn’t exactly begging for what Martin is thinking about, he doesn’t even know Martin’s thinking about it. But he is standing there, so close and so far, asking him not to go, and Martin can’t stop himself. He reaches for Jon’s still-extended hand and uses it to pull him in close until their chests are flush against each other. Jon trips over his feet a bit, gasps softly, looks up at him with a question in his eyes. Martin hesitates, overwhelmed, breathing in the scent of Jon’s hair, staring at his lips. They’re dry and bitten to hell, red and chapped, and Martin’s chest aches with it.
A pitiful sound working its way up from his throat, Jon leans into him bodily. “Martin,” he whispers, “what… what are you doing?”
Breathing heavily, Martin darts his tongue out to wet his lips. “I think I’m going to kiss you,” he says, sounding far more sure of himself than he feels. “I’d like to do more than that, if that’s okay.”
Jon blinks once, slowly, then gives a little nod. “A-alright,” he says.
Martin finally gives in, one hand wrapping around the back of Jon’s head and pulling him in to kiss him with crushing force. Jon lets out a little squeak, going up on his toes to meet Martin in the middle, his own arms snaking around Martin’s waist and squeezing him as if to make sure he’s real. Jon responds to the kiss easily, parts his lips for Martin’s tongue, sighs into his mouth. When Martin pulls back by an inch, he lets out a little whine of discontent, attempting to surge forward to chase after him, but Martin stops him with a hand tangled in his hair.
“I-I’m not back, okay?” Martin says, holding Jon fast and maintaining intense eye contact to be sure he’s getting it. “This happens once, and then you need to leave me alone.”
Jon stares at him, crestfallen. “But why?” he asks, his voice soft and strained. “Why do it at all, then?”
“It just… it has to be this way,” Martin attempts to explain without explaining, knowing that the full truth would hurt him far more. “Do you want this, Jon?”
“I—of course I do,” Jon says quickly, as if it’s a stupid question. As if him wanting this is as natural and as normal as breathing, and not the most outlandish part of all of this by far. “I just… I miss you, Martin.”
“Yeah, well. That’s sort of the point,” Martin says darkly before reeling Jon in for another blistering kiss. He detaches himself from Jon’s lips again only to murmur into his mouth, “Let’s—your office. Yeah?”
“Mm,” Jon hums, nodding. “As private as it gets, around here.”
They make their way down to the archives and into Jon’s office without seeing anyone else, which may be Martin’s doing without his intending it. Melanie and Basira should be around, but they don’t run into them, thankfully. When Martin closes and locks the office door behind him, Jon breathes a sigh of relief and turns to face him.
“You said—more than kissing?” he asks, fingers fiddling with his sleeve. “H-how is that, erm… allowed?”
“I don’t really want to talk about it,” Martin says bluntly. “Can I fuck you or not?”
It shocks him to hear himself say it. Peter’s been rubbing off on him a bit, he realizes with a twinge of annoyance. Everything’s changed so much, and the last time they were in this office together, this would have been unthinkable. All of it, from Martin’s ability to speak to Jon like this to Jon’s acceptance of it.
Jon is also somewhat stunned by Martin’s directness, standing stock-still and gaping at him for a long time before he can muster up any words. “I, er, yes,” he finally stammers out. “I-I-I want you to.”
In spite of himself, Martin smiles at that, closing the distance between them with several long strides. “Right,” he declares, trying not to think about how strange it is that Jon is letting this happen. In another life, Martin would be second-guessing everything about this, checking and re-checking, dragging out a conversation about every aspect of what’s about to happen before he would be comfortable doing it. He would need to be sure that Jon was doing this for the right reasons, that they could still be friends afterwards, that nobody would get hurt. But things are different now. Martin is fairly sure they’re both going to come away from this with a fair amount of hurt.
Without wasting time, he leans down to kiss Jon again, pulling him in with both hands heavy on his hips. Jon brings his hands up and digs his fingers into Martin’s shoulders, as if he’s afraid he might lose his balance if he lets go. Martin wonders vaguely in the back of his mind if kissing doesn’t defeat the purpose of this, if what Peter intended wasn’t just for them to have a quick, passionless fuck where they don’t look each other in the eye.
He doesn’t really care what Peter wants. He doesn’t give a shit if he’s not meant to kiss Jon, if he’s not meant to hold Jon close and bask in his warmth, if he’s not meant to have all these feelings about it. He knows he has to keep a lot inside for this to work, for him to be able to walk away afterwards, and he knows that he’s changed a lot, but he won’t deny himself the chance to at least enjoy this thing he’s wanted for so, so long.
Gently, carefully, he rucks up Jon’s shirt, untucking it from his trousers and exposing the soft curves of his stomach, his hips, his waist. Jon inhales sharply, moans against his lips, and Martin slips his hands up under his shirt to caress his skin, to squeeze beneath the elastic band of his bra and knead both of his breasts with strong, sure fingers. Arching into the touch, Jon slides his tongue against Martin’s, whimpers pitifully into his mouth. It occurs to Martin that he’ll have to stop kissing Jon to lift the shirt over his head, and he groans as he pulls away from Jon’s eager mouth.
“Sorry,” he mutters in reply to Jon’s own sound of disappointment. When Jon realizes what he’s trying to do, he raises his hands over his head to allow Martin to remove his shirt. Martin’s hands go straight to the clasp of his bra next, undoing it deftly and slipping it off of Jon’s shoulders. Both shirt and bra are discarded promptly on the floor, and Jon reaches for Martin’s face to pull him down into another kiss as soon as his hands are free to do so.
Martin’s own hands find their way back to Jon’s chest quickly, squeezing his tits, tweaking a nipple and smiling at the gasp it pulls out of him. Martin had spent years dreaming about this, and the hard work of the intervening months where he’s been steadfastly avoiding thinking about it has been all but entirely undone in the short time since that conversation with Peter. He knows exactly what he plans to do, how he’s going to touch Jon—he’ll adjust, of course, if Jon has different ideas, but deciding what he wants is not an obstacle here.
“Martin,” Jon half-murmurs, half-whines against his lips, pushing his chest into Martin’s hands.
“Yeah,” Martin replies, his breath hot on Jon’s skin. “You okay?”
“Yes,” Jon answers hastily, like he’s afraid showing any hesitation will make Martin change his mind about the whole thing. “I just, I-I… I want to see you.” He tugs tentatively at the front of Martin’s shirt, just in case it wasn’t clear what he meant.
A wave of affection rushes through Martin, his chest feeling tight, at Jon’s uncertainty. He seems reluctant to ask Martin for anything, to express any desire whatsoever, and it’s so different from the way things used to be that it catches Martin off guard. It makes sense considering how Martin’s been acting toward him lately, but it’s just so unlike Jon, and so like the soft, sweet thing Martin always dreamed of pulling out of him. It’s not great, probably, for Martin to like this so much, both because it’s counter to his purpose here and because it’s not very kind to Jon, but he thinks maybe those cancel each other out.
“Okay,” he says after a too-long pause.
Turning his back on Jon out of some lingering sense of self-consciousness, he removes his own shirt in one easy motion. He thinks for a second, then moves to step out of his trousers as well, smiling to himself at the little hitch in Jon’s breath that he hears from behind him. When he’s down to his boxers, he looks back at Jon to find him staring, lips parted, eyes wide. Meeting his gaze seems to jar him out of his daze, making him shake his head quickly and square his shoulders.
Realizing he’s a bit behind, Jon goes to undo the button of his own trousers. Martin watches for a moment before stepping toward him and pushing his hands out of the way to do it himself. Ever acquiescing, Jon drops his hands to his sides and lets Martin remove the rest of his clothes, quiet and gentle. Standing before Martin fully nude, Jon reaches out to hook a finger in the waistband of his boxers, tilting his head questioningly. Martin gives him a nod, and Jon lights up as he slides them down Martin’s legs, letting his fingers graze Martin’s skin as he goes.
It makes Martin shiver, the light contact just reminding him how much he’s missed being touched. It’s been getting easier to forget lately as he slips more and more into the fog, but the feeling of Jon’s skin, real and hot and close, brings it all rushing back.
He closes his eyes, trying to bite back the feeling, telling himself that’s not why he’s here, but isn’t it? When he really thinks about it, he can’t honestly make himself believe that he wants to walk away from this having gotten Jon out of his system. It would be conducive for the mission he’s on, but it’s not what he wants. The past few months have helped him distance himself from everything and everyone he used to love, but this is Jon. He’s alive, and he’s here, and he wants this. Martin is going to appreciate it, even if he knows it can’t happen again.
He eyes Jon up and down, taking in the sight of his beautiful, soft body, and breathes a sad sigh. Jon looks so tired, so harrowed, his dark skin covered with so many scars that it hurts Martin to look at him. Most of the marks are ones from before his coma, ones Martin already knew about, but he notes the new ones with his eyes, weary but unsurprised. Martin feels his hard exterior continue to crack, and has to take a breath to assure himself he can make it through this without it crumbling entirely.
“Come here,” he murmurs, pulling Jon abruptly into his arms and kissing him again, all hard and sharp.
Jon goes with the movement willingly, craning his neck up to meet Martin’s lips with a little whine. The sound makes Martin’s cock twitch against Jon, which pulls another adorable sound from his throat as he moves in closer to push their bodies together. His stomach and pelvis press up against Martin’s cock, and Martin rolls his hips a bit to grind into his warm, soft skin.
“God,” Martin moans, the sound of it muffled into Jon’s mouth, a million things running through his head that he won’t let himself say. There was a time, mere months ago, when he would have jumped on the opportunity to tell Jon he loves him, to tell him how sweet and beautiful and good he is, to touch him and hold him and whisper sweet nothings in his ear. This is not that time. It can’t be.
Instead, he snakes his hands around Jon’s waist to grab his ass with both hands, pulling his chest flush with Martin’s and grinding against him. Slipping his tongue between Jon’s lips, he gets harder by the second, his body finally catching up with the fact that this is really, actually happening. Jon’s fingers twist into thick, tight curls, tugging gently, as he sucks eagerly on Martin’s tongue. He lets out hungry little whimpers whenever he feels Martin’s cock twitch against his body, getting more restless each time.
After a few minutes of this, Martin starts getting restless himself and breaks the kiss, pushing Jon back a step with firm hands on his shoulders. Jon looks up at him, panting, his lips wet and swollen, and makes a small, questioning noise.
“I want you to get on your knees,” Martin says, not a question. Without waiting for a response, he crosses the few steps over to Jon’s desk chair, takes a seat, spreads his legs, and gestures expectantly for Jon to kneel between them.
Feeling slightly abandoned and caught off guard, Jon stays there for a moment missing the warmth of Martin’s body close to his. He makes his way over to Martin on shaky legs and collapses before him, folding his hands in his lap and looking up at him. On anyone else, in any other circumstance, Martin might call a look like that adoring, but—well, it has to be something else. Jon couldn’t possibly be gazing adoringly at him. Martin’s not delusional enough to believe that Jon wants this because he has feelings for him. He’s doing this because he’s lost, because he’s afraid, because Martin is a reminder of the way things used to be, and Jon misses the way things used to be.
Bringing a hand up to Jon’s hair, Martin brushes a lock out of his face and tucks it behind his ear before grabbing a handful tightly in his fist. He pulls Jon in close by his hair until his breath ghosts over Martin’s sensitive cock. “You know what to do, don’t you?” he says, commanding but not unkind. “Go on, then.”
Jon hesitates, his jaw hanging open, his lower lip quivering. “I-I—you want… my mouth?” he asks shakily.
Something inside Martin’s chest gives a twinge and he feels the need to clarify, “If that’s alright with you.” He’s thinking again of what he would be doing and saying if things were different, trying not to fixate on it too much. Deep inside, he longs to be sweet to Jon, but that’s not what he’s here for. He’s also not here to do anything that Jon doesn’t want, though.
Eyes glued to Martin’s erection, Jon nods his head minutely. “It is,” he says, swallowing hard. “I… I w-want…” he trails off, unable to voice whatever it is he was going to say, and moves forward to take the head of Martin’s cock between his lips. Tonguing the tip, he moans at the taste of him, pulls back just long enough to murmur a soft “Fuck,” before leaning back in.
“Oh, God,” Martin groans, his hand settling heavy on the back of Jon’s head. Looking down at Jon, with all his shyness and uncertainty, makes Martin fear that this whole thing might just make everything worse, might make him question his resolve. Still, the part of him that wants Jon to let him be when this is over can’t resist the urge to mutter darkly, “This is what you should be doing with your mouth. Can’t hurt anyone down there, can you?”
Jon whines at that, gazing up through his lashes to give him a wounded look. Martin can’t find it in him to feel sorry about it, especially as he revels in the slick heat of Jon’s mouth on his cock. He wonders, briefly, if Jon would even be doing this if he didn’t think it was the only way to get Martin to stick around for a while. He seems eager to have Martin in his mouth, regardless, and Martin isn’t keen on trying to convince him not to.
He’s clearly not the most experienced, which Martin is relieved to realize. Last he’d heard, Jon was someone who just didn’t really do sex. A lot has happened since then, though, and Martin supposes he’d been worried that Jon might have been making questionable decisions in the intervening time, putting himself in uncomfortable situations. Situations a bit like this one, really, but Martin intends to take good care of him.
In a shadowy, awful corner of his mind, Martin can admit to himself that it makes him feel good to know that he’s one of very few people who have gotten to see Jon like this. To touch him and be touched by him. He catches himself thinking Maybe, when this is all over… but stops himself before that thought can go any further. When this is all over, he doesn’t expect to be around.
Jon’s working up and down the underside of his cock, dropping wet, open-mouthed kisses accompanied by little kitten licks as he goes. He seems to be going off pure instinct, just doing what feels good to him and attempting to adapt his technique based on the sparse feedback of Martin’s quick breaths and high moans. Martin twitches against his face, and Jon lets out the tiniest whimper he’s ever heard, and Martin decides that’s rather enough of this timid, experimental touching.
He takes a tight handful of Jon’s hair again, tugging harshly at his scalp, and maneuvers him up to the head of his cock. Jon moans openly at the first pull, then makes a small sound of halfhearted protest when Martin’s length slides unceremoniously between his lips. Impatient, Martin doesn’t hesitate to push him down until his tip hits the back of Jon’s throat, making him gag and splutter.
“Have you ever done this before?” Martin asks, attempting to keep his tone neutral, but a hint of meanness manages to creep in.
Jon grunts indignantly, his eyebrows drawing together, the scowl evident on his face even with his lips stretched around Martin’s cock. Martin just looks at him expectantly, and after a moment Jon’s expression softens somewhat into one of chagrin. “Mm-mm,” he hums, shaking his head the tiniest bit.
Whatever irritation or embarrassment Jon feels about being called out like this, it mostly evaporates when Martin’s cock jumps against his tongue in response to the revelation. He huffs a curious little breath out through his nose, blinking up at Martin. His own face now rapidly heating up, Martin bites his lip hard.
“I can’t believe you’re letting me do this to you,” he mutters, almost angrily, though he doesn’t know if he’s mad at Jon or himself. Both, probably, and then some.
Jon whines, the vibrations around Martin’s cock sending a cascade of sensation through his body. Martin’s hips jump, bucking into Jon’s mouth without his consciously meaning to, and the head of his cock rubs up against Jon’s soft palate again until it meets resistance. This time Jon doesn’t gag, though his muscles do constrict around Martin delightfully. Martin thrusts forward again and breaches Jon’s throat, groaning at the tight, hot pressure of it. Struggling slightly at the intrusion, Jon steadies himself by wrapping one hand around Martin’s calf, the other moving down between his own legs.
Martin notes this with interest, arousal throbbing in his core. “You like that, huh?” he asks, blunt nails scraping the nape of Jon’s neck. “Needy thing.”
Moaning around Martin’s length, Jon presses down on his own cock with the heel of his palm, lets his eyes slide shut at the sensation. Martin holds his head in place to fuck into his throat again and again, relishing the choked little sounds leaving him and the sight of him rolling his hips to grind against his hand. He’s beautiful like this, all keen and keyed up and lost in the scent and taste and feel of Martin.
“You were just made for this, weren’t you?” Martin murmurs, unable to hold back for very long. He’s putting a hell of a lot of effort into refraining from calling Jon every pet name in the book; it’s more than he can manage to keep his mouth shut entirely. He figures talking to Jon while they fuck isn’t against the rules, as long as he isn’t too nice or affectionate about it.
Jon can’t respond with Martin repeatedly burying himself to the hilt in his mouth, but he squirms in place and undulates his tongue against the underside of Martin’s cock. Something about the reaction sparks a sort of curiosity in Martin, makes him wonder just how much degrading and humiliating he could get away with, how much Jon would let him push before he’d push back. He loved this man once—if he’s honest, of course, he still does, but admitting that to himself doesn’t help anyone—but this has always been a part of him, this hard edge to his desire.
As his pleasure grows and he feels his climax approaching, Martin’s thrusts begin to grow more erratic. He sees tears gathering in the corners of Jon’s eyes and he leans into some of those old urges, fucking his mouth harder and faster. A low moan in Jon’s throat vibrates through him and Martin groans, has to pull him off his cock and grip himself at the base to keep from coming.
Unaware of what’s going on in Martin’s head, Jon lets out a pitiful whine, the hand that’s been rubbing his dick coming out from between his legs to settle back in his lap. He looks up with big, wet eyes, like a baby deer, like he’s afraid he’s done something wrong. Again, Martin has to repress the overwhelming impulse to cradle Jon’s face in both his hands and tell him he’s doing so well, he’s perfect, he’s everything.
Instead, he reaches out a hand to help Jon to his feet, which Jon accepts, wincing as his knees protest the movement. Martin appraises him, drinking up the sight of him looking much the same as he did several minutes ago, but more disheveled. The wetness in his eyes, the dark flush in his cheeks, his mussed hair and his dilated pupils and his shaking legs—Martin takes it all in, more turned on than he’s ever been in his life. He can even see Jon’s stiff little cock standing proud of his folds, peeking out from the dark hair between his legs, and all thoughts leave him except his need to get it in his mouth.
“Up on the desk,” he orders, his voice low and rasping with want.
“Oh,” Jon breathes. “Why?”
Martin rolls his eyes. “I want to eat you out before I fuck you.”
Rather than answer him, Jon just nods and climbs onto the desk slowly, using the chair as leverage to help him up. His joints aren’t the best, Martin knows, and a part of him feels bad for making him kneel on the hard floor, for not offering to help him get on the desk, but it’s too late for that now. And worrying about Jon’s pain doesn’t exactly mesh with what he’s trying to do here. It’s just—a reflex of his. He’s spent months trying to suppress it, but he’s still not that good at simply turning it off.
Facing him, Jon plants his feet on the desk chair between Martin’s thighs, his own legs pressed tightly together until Martin brings his hands up to Jon’s knees and wrenches them apart without a word. It doesn’t take much effort, it’s not like Jon resists the handling at all, but he gasps sharply at the force behind it anyway. Martin gives him a sly little smile, then drags his gaze conspicuously down between Jon’s legs. Jon squirms, his face flushing hot and deep, but doesn’t try to cover himself up.
“God,” Martin murmurs, his mouth watering. “You just—you stay right there and let me… just let me.”
“Okay,” Jon replies, hardly even a whisper.
Martin wasn’t really asking, so Jon’s soft response is fairly redundant. He watches intently, unable to look away from Martin’s rapt expression as he leans in. It would be easy to go right in with his tongue and get the taste of Jon in his mouth right now, as close as he is, but Martin simply wants a good view as he slides his hand up Jon’s thigh and spreads his folds with two fingers. He lets out an awed breath, his eyes going glassy, and buries his nose into the hair there, inhaling deeply and luxuriously. All the air leaves Jon’s lungs at once as he holds perfectly still, his sensitive clit responding to the stimulation of Martin’s hot breath washing over it.
Martin takes his time here, not willing to rush this part. Jon smells sweet and rich and earthy, his arousal evident. His thick, dark curls are softer than Martin expected, smattered with gray, and the scent of him is stronger there. Nosing in between his folds, Martin gets a bit lightheaded, overwhelmed by the aroma surrounding him and Jon’s eager little cock twitching against his face. He flicks his tongue out to taste him at last, lapping up some of the mess around his hot, slick hole, and Jon whines high in his throat.
“Christ, you’re so wet,” Martin murmurs, lips moving against Jon’s skin.
He doesn’t tell Jon that he tastes and smells just like he always imagined, or that he would happily spend hours on end with his face buried in Jon’s cunt, or that knowing how turned on Jon is makes his own cock throb. He just presses in and in and thrusts his tongue into the tight heat of Jon’s hole, licking inside him hungrily and lapping up the bright, heady taste of his arousal. Jon makes the sweetest sounds, gasps and sighs and whines as Martin loses himself in his task. He shifts his hips in tiny little motions to try to push into Martin’s mouth, mostly fruitlessly, but enough to make Martin chuckle at his impatience.
Pulling away, Martin can’t stop himself from asking, “What about this? Has anyone ever gotten their mouth on you like this before?”
Closing his eyes like he has to focus, Jon nods after a moment’s thought. “Once or twice,” he explains. “I-it never really, erm, did much for me.”
“Until now,” Martin says, giving him another wry smile before diving back in.
“Y-yeah,” Jon confirms with a small nod, his high, strained voice giving away how affected he is.
Feeling rather smug, Martin drags the flat of his tongue from Jon’s dripping hole up to his stiff cock and takes it between his lips. A strangled moan tears its way out of Jon’s chest as he throws his head back in pleasure, his eyes screwing shut. Martin brings one hand up to the crease where Jon’s hip meets his thigh, the other hand wrapping around Jon’s waist, both just squeezing the flesh and feeling the warmth of his skin.
He is a lot warmer, softer, more human than Martin ever dared to imagine. Not that the Jon in his fantasies was some kind of marble statue, but the unattainable has a way of elevating itself above what the mind recognizes as real. And the events of the last few months—Jon’s increasing reliance on Beholding, his readiness to pull live statements from unwilling subjects, his miraculous recovery from a coma that all his doctors said he’d never wake up from—have raised some concerns in Martin’s eyes as to just how human he is. Not that any of that changes things for Martin. Human, inhuman, avatar of something deeply evil… it doesn’t not matter to Martin, but it’s still just Jon.
Moaning indulgently, he sucks hard on Jon’s stiff, swollen cock. Jon cries out, a darling, breathy sound, and Martin rubs his thumb gently over his hip in little circles. He swirls his tongue around the perfect nub of Jon’s clit, feeling it jerk in his mouth, reveling in the taste of him and the way he wiggles and writhes and whimpers under Martin’s ministrations. Martin even loses himself in it enough to mutter God, I love you against his sweet cunt, though mercifully the words are quiet and muffled enough that Jon hears it as nothing but more moaning.
It’s unbelievable, incredible, being able to do this for Jon, make him feel good, make him lose all his composure in a way that pleases them both. Jon bucks into Martin’s mouth, his noises getting more desperate, his fingers twisting delicately into Martin’s hair. He rolls his hips sinuously, grinding his clit against Martin’s clever tongue, gasping beautiful Ah-ah-ahs at the friction and the soft heat of it.
Dipping down lower, Martin noses against Jon’s cock and presses his tongue inside his hole again, savoring the taste of his juices as he gets wetter. He tightens around Martin’s tongue as it fucks in and out of his cunt, wriggling against his walls and pulling the loveliest sounds from him.
Jon’s first orgasm catches them both off guard, crashing through him with little warning. He lets out a high, keening moan, throwing his head back, holding Martin in close to rub against his face as his climax works its way through his body in several strong waves. His cunt leaking more juices onto Martin’s tongue only makes him double down on his efforts, lapping it all up greedily and relishing the twitching of Jon’s clit against him.
As the white-hot pleasure passes through him and begins to fade, Jon lifts his hands from Martin’s head, his whines becoming more pitiful as the sensation grows more overstimulating, near painful. Martin pulls away by just a few inches, looks up to meet Jon’s gaze. “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop,” he says, then moves in again to take Jon’s sensitive, electrified cock into his mouth.
The sound that escapes Jon is more of a scream than anything else, and Martin smiles, wrapping his tongue around the spasming little clit and sucking on it in long, slow pulls. Jon puts his hands back on Martin’s head, unsure whether to try pulling him away or holding him firmly in place. His pretty little whines quickly become panting, gasping breaths, desperate and overwhelmed and ecstatic and tortured. Martin breathes a short laugh, sucking harder and nestling his nose into the thatch of dark curls that are now quite damp with Jon’s juices.
“Ah, f-f—Martin, fuck,” he squeals, which Martin takes as encouragement, especially because it isn’t Stop.
The sound of Jon saying his name like that will never, ever leave his memory, burned into him like a brand. He flicks the tip of his tongue over the swollen nub of Jon’s clit, scrapes his teeth along the length of it just to hear Jon yelp and feel his trembling thighs tense up around his head. Humming contentedly, Martin laves the flat of his tongue over Jon’s cock, and then again, and again, until Jon’s pained noises start to sound more like he’s actually enjoying it.
Hands heavy on Jon’s thighs, he pries them apart further, pushing his face deeper between Jon’s folds and pressing his tongue inside him again. He thrusts it in as far as he can, and Jon makes a different sort of sound, a low, husky groan that seems to come from deep in his core. Keen to hear that sound again, Martin grips the soft flesh of his thighs tightly, hard enough to bruise, and fucks him open on his tongue, slow and deep. Jon’s still feeling overstimulated, still alternating between pushing into Martin’s mouth and trying to shift away. When his ragged moans again turn into high, airy whines and whimpers, Martin brings one hand up to thumb at his cock while continuing to lick insistently at the sensitive areas of his inner walls.
Jon pants out a breathless little, “Martin, I, I-I’m, ahh,” before he comes again. His cunt clenches down around Martin’s tongue and Martin keeps thrusting it into him forcefully, stroking his clit. Martin doesn’t expect the sudden spurt of wet heat on his face, but he isn’t about to complain about it, savoring the drips that make it into his mouth. Jon chokes on a pitiful little wail, his cock twitching pathetically, as Martin still doesn’t pull away. He brings the hand that’s been rubbing Jon’s dick back to his thigh and moves up to suck his clit into his mouth again, holding his legs apart as Jon’s body tries in vain to close them against the onslaught of sensation.
“Martin, I can’t, I-I can’t again, not right now,” Jon says, close to sobbing.
Somehow, Martin didn’t even notice when fat tears started intermittently rolling down Jon’s cheeks. That’s also not asking him to stop, though, so he doesn’t. He doesn’t particularly care if Jon comes again. He does want Jon to keep crying for him. He keeps sucking on his clit, hard and insistent, until Jon starts openly weeping and trying to twist his hips away. Martin listens closely in case Jon’s eventual request to stop is too quiet or garbled to hear, but there’s nothing besides his sweet little cries. His cock pulses between Martin’s lips, his hole still growing increasingly wet, as Martin snakes both arms under his legs to support Jon’s knees on his shoulders. Wrapping his hands around Jon’s thighs, he holds him firmly in place to counter all of the shaking and spasmodic tensing of his limbs.
Leaning back on his hands, Jon lets it all wash over him, wailing and writhing as Martin has his fill. It feels like it’s been hours—though Martin could continue for much longer—by the time Jon reaches down, taps him politely twice on the top of the head, and finally murmurs a weak, pathetic little “S-stop, please,” between heaving sobs.
As promised, Martin pulls back immediately, even retracting his hands from Jon’s thighs and pushing the chair back a bit to let him close his legs. Jon does, pressing his thighs together hard and folding his hands in his lap. He sniffles, averting his gaze down and to the side to stare at a spot on the floor rather than looking at Martin.
“Are you okay?” Martin asks, worrying now that he may have taken it too far, gone past what Jon could truly handle.
“Yeah,” Jon mumbles with another sniffle, glancing up quickly to give him a tiny smile, “I’m good.”
“You still want me to fuck you?” Martin reaches a hand out again, places it delicately on Jon’s knee, tilts his head to catch his eye.
“Yes, please,” says Jon, perking up, wiggling in place a bit. “Where do you want me?”
Martin has to close his eyes for a second to get past the strong surge of fondness that inspires in him and the jolt it sends straight to his cock. He takes a deep breath, which reminds him that his face is covered in Jon’s juices, making him throb even more powerfully. He’d almost forgotten how achingly hard he is, absorbed as he was in the taste and smell and sound and feel of Jon, but his arousal rears its head now in full force. He would love to have Jon sit in his lap and ride him, but the chair is a bit small for it. Glancing around the room, he quickly comes to a decision. Wordlessly, he stands from the chair and offers a hand to help Jon down from the desk, then pulls him by the hand over to the wall.
Jon gasps softly when Martin grabs him by the shoulders and turns him around to face the wall, pressing in close behind him and leaning down to breathe in the scent of him. Tipping his head back onto Martin’s shoulder, Jon takes in a deep breath of his own, lets his eyes flutter shut. Martin turns his head to press his lips to the corner of Jon’s mouth, and Jon turns into the kiss and deepens it, melting against Martin’s body as he parts his lips to let Martin’s tongue inside.
Sliding a hand around Jon’s middle to rest flat on his stomach, Martin sighs into his mouth. His other hand moves up to rub the pad of one thumb over Jon’s nipple, cupping the whole of his breast in one large hand and swallowing up the beautiful moans that escape him. Jon pushes back into him, rubbing the curve of his ass up on Martin’s very evident erection, and Martin can’t help but grind against him with a guttural groan. “Ready?” he mutters against Jon’s lips, receiving a quick nod in reply.
Jon’s not a tiny person—several inches shorter than Martin, but he’s got some shape to him, plenty of very squeezable flesh—but Martin doesn’t have any trouble lifting him off the ground with the arm around his stomach. Jon spreads his legs as if on instinct, seemingly unfazed by being unceremoniously picked up. Martin takes his cock in his free hand and rubs the head back and forth over Jon’s dripping hole a few times, making him squirm in anticipation. He pushes just the tip inside before wrapping his arm around Jon again to hold him tightly in both arms and lower him onto his cock. He opens up easily, all wet and ready, but Martin takes his time with it nonetheless, savoring each second as he hilts himself in Jon’s cunt.
“God,” Jon pants, his feet flexing uselessly toward the floor until Martin sets him down again, leaving him up on his toes and leaning forward against the wall. He arches his back to push his chest out, and Martin brings a hand up to grope one of his little tits and pinch and pull at his nipple. Pleased with the response, Jon whines and wriggles into the touch, tightening around Martin’s length as he begins thrusting up into him.
The tight heat of Jon and the overwhelming wonder of being finally, blissfully inside him punches a breathless sound from Martin as he squeezes Jon harder around the middle, still supporting most of his weight. “Fuck, you take it so well,” he mutters hotly, nipping at Jon’s earlobe and running the tip of his tongue up along the shell of his ear. “Have you done this? Ever been fucked before?”
“N-no,” Jon says on a broken moan, shaking his head. “Just toys.”
“Hard to believe you don’t do this all the time,” Martin murmurs. “You’re such a natural at it.”
Jon whines, twisting in Martin’s arms as if to deliberately highlight the fact that he’s not actually doing much here. Martin bites his ear again, tugging gently, and growls, “You’re just a little slut, aren’t you?”
Appearing to take issue with that, Jon makes a weak groan of lukewarm complaint and shakes his head several times. “Yes, you are,” Martin mutters, pressing a little kiss to the hinge of his jaw as he fucks into him with more force. “You’re so wet, so fucking desperate for it.”
He doesn’t quite know what it is in him that makes him need to push the issue, but Jon’s cunt is so tight and wet around him and he feels so soft and sweet in his arms and he can’t keep the words to himself. Maybe he thinks that the filthier he gets, the less chance there is that any love will creep in. Nevermind the fact that he’s been fantasizing about having Jon in this exact position, telling him these exact words, since long before the time when loving Jon became something he had to fight against.
For his part, Jon doesn’t seem particularly adamant about denying the assertion. Martin’s cock fills him up so well, like he was made for it, driving into him over and over while Jon writhes in his arms and moans each time he bottoms out. The hand that’s been playing with his chest finds its way down between Jon’s legs, two of Martin’s thick fingers bracketing his clit and stroking it up and down. It’s been long enough now since his last orgasm that Jon responds extremely favorably to the touch, whimpering and pushing into Martin’s hand as much as he can.
“You want to come for me again? Come on my cock?” Martin whispers in his ear, smiling at the way Jon keens and clenches around him and nods enthusiastically. He keeps thrusting up into Jon’s cunt as he jerks off his perfect cock, turning to kiss his neck and suck a dark mark into his soft, warm skin. Jon tilts his head to the side to give him better access, letting out a high moan, one hand coming up to rest on Martin’s head.
Martin continues biting and sucking small marks into Jon’s neck and shoulder, luxuriating in the breathy little whines and mewls that leave him. He can’t say he’d expected Jon to be so forthcoming with all of his beautiful noises, but he certainly had always hoped for it. He’d rather thought Jon might have more to say during sex, considering how much he loves the sound of his own voice the rest of the time, but the fact that he practically goes speechless as soon as Martin gets his hands or his mouth on him is far from a disappointment. Making Jon feel good is its own reward. Every sound he makes goes into its own little file in Martin’s head to be revisited later, saved for a rainy day when he might need a particularly powerful reminder of what he’s doing all of this for.
It’s not very long before Jon’s hand starts grabbing desperately at the arm that’s still holding him up, nails digging into Martin’s skin as he shifts his hips to buck into the fingers expertly rubbing his clit. He sounds rapturous, he feels divine, and Martin dedicates all his energy to making him come. He releases his hold around Jon’s middle, shifting the balance of his weight and causing him to fall forward. He catches himself with both hands, but his cheek still squishes up against the wall, his mouth open and a little trail of drool escaping over his lower lip.
With his arm relieved of the weight of holding Jon up, Martin flexes his hand a few times, wincing at the slight ache, before lifting it up to tangle into the hair at the back of Jon’s head. The slight change in position means he’s fucking into him at a different angle now, making Jon wail with each deep thrust. He turns Jon’s head forcefully toward him to capture his lips in a kiss while his other hand is still stroking Jon’s dick. Deft and practiced, he licks along the seam of Jon’s lips and into his mouth, sliding their tongues together and tugging hard at his scalp.
Jon pants and whines as he rapidly approaches the edge, rolling his hips to grind into Martin’s fingers. Martin holds him tightly by the hair to kiss him deep and hot, doubling down on rubbing his cock until the wave of his pleasure crests and breaks. He comes with a darling little cry into Martin’s mouth, his whole body going rigid like a taut bowstring, and then limp like a ragdoll. Martin pulls his hand away from Jon’s cock when he starts making wounded-animal whimpers, goes back to squeezing Jon’s tits as he chases his own orgasm.
“Want me to pull out?” he asks, slowing his thrusts and catching Jon’s gaze to make sure he hears him clearly and thinks about his answer.
Jon’s eyes go big and wild and he shakes his head frantically. “No, no, please,” he begs, his voice low and rough, but quite lucid. “I want it, I need to feel you in me, please, please.”
It’s a surprising answer, but Martin won’t argue with it. He wonders if maybe Jon just wants something that will let him keep a bit of him around for even longer, let him keep Martin lingering longer than he really can. He likes the idea of it, of his come leaking down Jon’s thighs and making Jon think of him after he has to leave. He can’t keep coming back to him the way he’d like to, but he can leave Jon with a reminder of what they’ve done here.
Jon’s pleading with him is all it takes to push Martin over the edge, his vision whiting out as he thrusts into Jon’s cunt to the hilt and comes in a series of powerful bursts. Jon moans at the heat spreading inside him as Martin pumps him full, biting down on Jon’s shoulder to stifle his own long groan. He’s been hard and dancing near the edge for so long, and craving Jon for so much longer, that it’s the most intense orgasm of his life. Tears spring to his eyes before he’s even through the waves of his climax, and one escapes and rolls down his cheek as the pleasure finally tips into painful overstimulation on his softening cock. He pulls out slowly, gingerly, hissing through his teeth at the sensation.
Jon immediately turns around to face him, looking up at him with his round eyes big and wet and his gorgeous lips twisted into a little half-frown. It takes Martin a moment to realize that Jon looks scared, and another moment to understand why. It certainly feels like the sex part is over now—Martin would keep going if Jon asked him to, but he won’t—and that means they have to deal with the aftermath, and that means that Martin has to go. That he has to go back to running away when he sees Jon in the hallways, pretending that he isn’t doing everything to protect him, and getting more comfortable with being apart each day.
He’s not very happy about it, either, but he can’t respond to Jon’s plaintive expression the way he’d prefer. He would like to take Jon in his arms, stroke his hair, tell him everything, tell him it’ll all be okay in the end. He would like to ask if, when this is all over, they could be together. He would like to never let him go and never stop loving him. But he can’t. Not if he wants to do everything he can to ensure that Jon makes it through this.
What he can do, and does, is step forward and crowd Jon back against the wall, one hand on his waist while the other goes to grab his chin. Jon lets out a little whimper and cradles Martin’s cheeks in both of his hands, still giving him that same look. Martin swoops in to kiss him, softer and sweeter and slower than before. The hand squeezing Jon’s waist slides around to settle firmly into the small of his back, pulling him in close to press their bodies together as much as possible. The heat of Jon’s skin against his front is the only thing Martin can think about as he explores Jon’s mouth with his tongue, running it along the sharp line of his teeth and moaning against his lips.
Jon’s hands press into his skin, hot and desperate, holding him like he might disappear at any second. The skin of Jon’s right hand is roughly textured against his face, and Martin imagines a mirror image of Jon’s scars left indelibly on his cheek. The soft glide of Jon’s tongue against his, wet and easy, makes him think they could do this forever, never leave this room, just forget everything and everyone else and live in this kiss while the world ends around them. Or doesn’t end. He’s not sure what would happen if they were both removed from the grander equation, but it’s not a risk he can take.
He pulls away, tugging at Jon’s lower lip with his teeth one last time, letting out a miserable sigh when they finally separate. Jon reacts to the sound by shrinking away from him, looking down at the floor. Taking a step back, Martin turns to gather Jon’s clothes from the floor, handing the little pile to him without a word and moving to get dressed himself. Jon stands frozen for a long time before he finally starts to pull on his boxer briefs, slow and reluctant. By the time Martin is fully dressed and turns back to look at him, Jon is still in the middle of buttoning his trousers.
He lifts his head to meet Martin’s gaze, giving a little sniff before averting his eyes again, pulling his shirt over his head without putting his bra back on. “You’re going to leave now,” he says flatly.
“Jon…” Martin breathes another sad sigh, resisting the urge to move closer to him. “We talked about how this has to go. What did you expect?”
“I don’t know,” Jon mumbles. “Maybe I hoped… but it doesn’t matter. I-I get it.”
“Do you?” Martin asks skeptically.
“No,” Jon admits, “but I trust you. I trust that you know what you’re doing.”
In spite of everything, that brings a small snort of a laugh out of Martin. Jon furrows his brow quizzically, so he explains: “Wish you could tell that to two-years-ago Jon.”
Jon nods, chewing on his lip. “Yeah,” he says, quiet and shameful. “Me too.”
Unable to put it off any longer, Martin starts to move toward the door. “I have to get back,” he says, the taste of bile rising in his throat. “I’m sorry.”
Another slow nod, and Jon’s voice is hardly a whisper when he replies, “I know.”
“Just, just… stay safe, okay?”
“Right. You too.”
“No, I mean it,” Martin says fiercely, his eyes hardening. “Please, please keep yourself safe. That means stop running off into danger on a whim.”
“I-I will,” Jon promises, though they both know it’s a lie. “And—I mean it, too. I do. I need you to stay safe.”
“Yeah, I will,” says Martin, also lying. He offers Jon a sad little consolation prize of a smile, and then he leaves, trying to ignore the sound of Jon sighing after him and the pricking of tears threatening behind his own eyes.
He hardly makes it out of the archives before Peter pops up beside him, grinning from ear to ear. “So you did listen to me,” he says, sounding triumphant. “How do you feel?”
A special kind of horror dawns on Martin and he stops in his tracks, turning to fix Peter with the steeliest stare he can muster. He’s fairly confident his connection to the Lonely is strong enough that he would’ve felt an unseen extra presence in the office, but he can never be too sure. “You didn’t—you weren’t watching that, were you?”
Peter makes a face akin to that of a child being served steamed broccoli, shaking his head. “No, no,” he chuckles, “I don’t want to see that any more than you want me to see it. I can just—“
“You can smell it on me, yeah,” Martin interrupts, unamused. “What if I just decided to stop in to have a talk with him, hm?”
“We both know you didn’t,” says Peter. “You did what I suggested, because you know I’m right.”
“I did what you suggested because I wanted to,” Martin corrects him, unwilling to let him have a win. “And if you don’t shut up about it, maybe I’ll go do it again, just to make sure it doesn’t achieve what you were hoping for.”
“What’s the matter, Martin? Don’t want to talk to me about it?”
“I don’t want to talk to you about anything.”
“That’s good,” Peter praises him with a sharklike smile. “Will you be able to continue keeping your distance from him?”
Martin takes a deep breath, smelling the faint, fading scent of Jon on himself, and tries and fails to resist the urge to shoot a glance back toward Jon’s office. “Yeah,” he mutters bitterly. “Yeah, I will.”